Chapter 56

CHAPTER 56

SNOW WAS FALLING in DC the night of the party, but not a single guest had cancelled. It wasn’t every day a Georgetown department head got a five-hundred-thousand-dollar research grant. For the guest of honor, it was one of the biggest nights in an already distinguished medical career. His elegant townhome on P Street was the site of the celebration.

Nine-year-old Brendan was already in his pajamas, poking his head out of his upstairs bedroom door as guests circulated in the wood-paneled parlor below. He moved to watch and listen through the balcony rails.

As he tried to pick out and trace various conversations, the aromas from below practically knocked him back: seared meat and warm spices from the kitchen, colognes, liquor breath from the guests, hickory smoke from the fireplace.

When Brendan angled his head, he could see his father in the center of a cluster of people near the sofa. He was hard to miss. Not only tall and muscular but also the only Black man in the room. His ebony skin glowed in the firelight. He was smiling and talking more than usual tonight, bowing politely with each new flurry of congratulations. “Well done, Doctor!” “Edmond, you’ve done us proud!” “Will you be needing more lab assistants?”

The doctor replied with grace and good humor in his clear baritone voice. “Thank you so much!” “I couldn’t have done it without all of you.” “Yes, I believe we will need to bring a few more grad students on. Have any names for me?” He was surrounded by warmth and laughter.

Brendan could hear another voice, at the far end of the room, rise sporadically above the hum. He shifted his head and caught sight of his mother, Nina, in profile. She was pretty, with blond hair, delicate features, and a waist so narrow it could almost be encircled by her husband’s broad hands. And she was young—younger than anybody in the room. She had stationed herself near the bar, methodically smoothing her dress and patting her hair. “Yes, I’m so very pleased and proud,” she told everybody who came near. “So proud. I’ve worked hard for this moment too,” she kept saying, tapping her finger on the bar to emphasize each point: contacting all those foundations, proofreading all those proposals, all while managing this big, old house…

Guests smiled and chatted with her as they stepped up to get their drinks. But Brendan could discern the difference in those smiles—the sort of smiles that lifted the edges of the lips but did not crinkle the corners of the eyes. Fake smiles that faded quickly as the guests, drinks in hand, drifted back to the eddy of excitement around his father.

For brief intervals, Brendan noticed, his mother was totally alone. In those awkward moments, he watched her pretend to be needed by straightening bottles on the bar or adjusting flowers in a vase. The sight of her stung him in his gut and burned in his cheeks. He wanted to rush downstairs and hug her. Hold her. Rescue her.

After a few minutes, she turned and headed upstairs, lifting the hem of her white silk dress as she went. Brendan quickly ducked back into his bedroom and closed the door before his mother could catch him. He pressed his ear against the inside of the door as she passed by in the hall. The scent of her perfume traveled under the door and blossomed in his nostrils. Brendan instinctively ticked off the notes: nothing floral, musky, or spicy, just sweet scents like honey, vanilla, caramel, chocolate.

He cracked open his door again as a fresh wave of guests arrived. The cold air from outside fanned the flames in the fireplace and wafted the room scents upward. By now, his father had moved to an armchair—the king surrounded by his court. The jabber, jokes, and laughter rose to a new level.

Brendan slipped out into the hall. Barefoot, he tiptoed past the hall bathroom, the guest bedrooms, and his father’s office. The door to the master suite was closed. He turned the knob and peeked through into his parents’ bedroom. “Mother?” he called out. No answer.

He slipped inside. The bed was covered with the guests’ overcoats, and one window was open, letting in icy air and wafting the ivory-colored curtains inward. Through the window, Brendan could see snowflakes illuminated by the glow of streetlamps.

“Mother?” His heart was pounding now.

He heard a quick shuffling sound from the bathroom and noticed the sliver of light under the closed door. He walked over and knocked gently. More shuffling, then a soft sigh. He knocked and gripped the handle. “Mother? Can I come in?”

The door wasn’t locked. He pushed open the door to see his mother sitting on the tile floor between the tub and the toilet, staring up at him. Nina’s shoes were off, and the hem of her dress had ridden up over her knees. One leg of a pair of nylon stockings was wrapped around her skinny right biceps. The needle of a medical syringe poked into the crook of her elbow. Her thin fingers were slipping off the plunger.

“I’m fine, Brendan,” she said. “Go to bed.”

He watched as a gentle smile crossed his mother’s face. He was frozen and confused. He’d never seen her like this. He knew something was very wrong. But she looked so happy.

Holmes woke with a jolt and sat straight up on the narrow vinyl seat. He could feel his heart thumping under his suit. The train wheels rumbled on the tracks below. Empty fields raced by the window.

Holmes shook off the memory, as he had many times before. Then, to distract himself, he engaged his left brain, pulling out his cell phone to plot the remainder of his course. The train would arrive in Wilmington in an hour. The address Oliver Paul had given him was about twenty miles south, near a town called Kirkwood, at the edge of a huge, forested preserve. He should have taken Poe up on the offer of the car. I’ll have to take a cab from the train station, Holmes realized.

Google Maps offered no image of the property, which appeared to be hidden behind a row of trees. Public records showed that it last changed hands ten years ago, when it was sold to a Charlotte Drummond. According to Trulia.com, the house itself was small, only about eight hundred square feet—not much bigger than a trailer home.

Maybe the whole thing was a waste of time. Or some kind of test. Then his mind started spinning in another direction. Was there some reason that Oliver Paul wanted him out of town on a runaround?

Holmes felt his eyes watering. He dabbed his nose with his handkerchief. It felt like he was coming down with the flu, but he knew he was still in the throes of buprenorphine withdrawal. The mood swings and grogginess didn’t help. Weary as he was, he pressed his back into the seat and forced himself to keep his eyes open.

He wasn’t ready to have the same damn dream again.